Page 114 of Taming Seraphine

LEROI

Like agod?

I stand in the shower beneath the hot spray, letting the water wash away my turmoil of conflicting thoughts. Only three women know the full story, yet Seraphine is the only one who didn’t stare at me with looks of anger or horror.

When Anton arrived on the scene, he thought I was pitiful for not completing the job. Mom and sister had been yelling at me for nearly an hour, asking how I could have done something so horrific. Their words faded into the background because every ounce of my attention was on the bastard bleeding out on the floor.

Each rasp of his breath grated on my eardrums and frayed my nerves. I would have finished him if I’d been alone, but I couldn’t move forward with two women screaming as if I was a cold-hearted murderer instead of a loving brother and son trying to protect them.

I pick up the shampoo and work it through my hair, my thoughts traveling back to Seraphine’s words. She said she would have worshipped me if I had killed the men who raped her mother. It’s a peculiar way to put it, but it beats being seen as a monster. In her eyes, I’m a hero.

But she’d be wrong.

Heroes are patient and soft. Heroes are gentle. Heroes don’t grab women by the throat and fuck them until it hurts. Heroes also don’t lust after the women they’re supposed to save. Seraphine needs a man who will take it easy and slow, not one who will be demanding and rough.

Someone who isn’t me.

She has suffered enough at the hands of other men. Taking off the leash I’ve placed over myself will only add to her trauma.

My cock chooses that moment to stiffen. With a grunt, I jerk the taps to cold, and the icy spray douses the flames of my arousal. Seraphine is not a natural submissive. She’s broken and innocent and sweet. She doesn’t realize my calm facade is the cage I use to contain desires that could trigger her killer instincts.

The thought of her coming at me with a blade heats my blood, and my erection swells at the memory of how she ground against me. Dipping my head beneath the cold water, I swallow a groan and focus on putting an end to this insanity before I find myself in too deep.

I rinse off, cut the water, and step out of the shower, resigning myself to the fact that I’ll never be the man Seraphine needs or deserves.

She’s gone by the time I step into my room, presumably getting dressed as ordered. After slipping on a new outfit, I walk out of my room to get a start on breakfast.

A soft giggle makes my gaze snap to the far side of the dining table, where Seraphine sits beside Miko wearing only my shirt. They’re pressed up against each other, hunched over the screen of a computer tablet.

She perches on the chair with one bare leg pulled up close to her chest, her heel balanced on the edge of the seat. As Miko’s gaze bounces from his tablet to her exposed thigh, my jaw clenches. Seraphine has no right to invite men into my apartment while she’s naked.

“This one decapitates the zombie,” Miko points at something on his screen.

She double-taps and squeals. “What else can I do?”

“You can set them on fire,” Miko replies with a shy smile.

“Let me try.” Her movement causes the collar of my shirt to slip and reveal her shoulder.

When Miko’s gaze hones in on her creamy skin, it takes every molecule of self-control not to rip them apart. Pressure gathers in my temples, escalating with each pounding beat of my heart. Keeping a tight control over my rage, I cross the room and slam both palms on the table.

They jerk apart. Miko flushes, while Seraphine gazes up at me with a familiar look of defiance.

“Hey man, I knocked and Sera let me in,” Miko says.

Sera?

I meet Seraphine’s huge blue eyes. There’s no sign of the vulnerable girl who confronted me in my bedroom. She’s more like the one I caught splattered in blood and cutting the penis of her enemy into wafer-thin slices.

Now is not the time to deal with her brand of chaos.

“Why are you here?” I ask Miko.

“He’s going to teach me to be a hacker,” Seraphine says, her eyes bright.

I ignore her taunting and focus on Miko, who shifts in his seat. “I found the hospital they used for the first transplant, it’s in New Jersey. The live donor was a man with a birth date that would have made him eighteen at the time, and the address given is a condo in Queen’s Gardens around the corner owned by Joseph Di Marco.”

“His lawyer knew?” I ask, all traces of possessiveness fading.

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